


what is to give light must endure burning

by Gracerevealed



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 10:30:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19886137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gracerevealed/pseuds/Gracerevealed
Summary: Jon dies. Jon learns."Only Death Can Pay For Life."(I'm terrible at summaries, but give it a chance!)





	what is to give light must endure burning

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for a while, but it's taken me some time and my utter disappointment with season 8 to finally write and post it now. I hope people enjoy reading this as much I enjoyed writing it. Thank you to the wonderful allofspace for betaing - any mistakes are my own.

“Ghost," he whispered.

Numbness had stolen his grip and he fumbled clumsily at the sword by his side. He vaguely heard the sound of weeping and screaming in the night air and relished the taste of man flesh on his tongue as he crumpled to his knees.

The last clear thought he remembered having while staring into the too bright sky was 'why.' His mouth moved and he howled, but the word lingered on his lips, fettered by the last breath he had taken.

On a sloping pile of bloodied ice, with 2 daggers protruding from his smoking body, Jon Snow, 98th commander of the Nights Watch, died.

Ingloriously.

**********

Consciousness slammed into him all at once and he opened his eyes gasping for air.

Jon did not immediately recognize his surroundings, only that he was in a room much different from any he’d become familiar with at Castle Black, lying on a bed.

He stared at the ceiling and tried mightily to calm his heaving chest as recognition slowly began filtering through his disorientation.

The ceiling looked familiar. Jon closed his eyes, turned his head to the side, and inhaled deeply. The bed coverings certainly smelled familiar. He quickly gathered his bearings after that, but it had taken an unnervingly long while for him to realize that he’d sat in this very bed many a night concocting one scheme or another with Robb and even more nights thinking about his mother.

Jon was in his old bedroom in Winterfell.

He cautiously rolled to his side and slung his feet over the edge of the bed, the motion provoking a sharp sting of discomfort that radiated throughout his chest. Groaning, Jon groped clumsily at his breast until his fingers swept over a particularly sensitive area near his heart. He pressed the tender skin there – heedless of the damage underneath – and nearly gagged in response to the staggering pain.

"Gods..." he whispered, struggling to sit up. His whole body ached, especially the back of his throbbing head – but that spot… Jon pushed, gingerly this time, and winced. Yes. That spot was undoubtedly what hurt the most. He poked at it again and shivered as pain shot across his torso, raced up his shoulder and wrapped around his spine.

_Fuck_.

Jon lifted his shirt, and made a quiet, surprised sound when the offending area came into view.

The marks he saw appeared fresh but cauterized, as if scalding iron had been applied to temper and seal a very awful looking knife wound. He ran his thumb and forefinger over the marred flesh. The place there felt different than the surrounding skin. Raised yet smoothed over. He carefully stretched one hand behind his back and ran the other over his sides, feeling at least two identical marks underneath his fingertips.

Jon knew well every cut, burn, and bruise that had ever left a scar on his body, but these fresh lacerations were unfamiliar. He touched his abdomen again, stretched out his fingers, measuring the size of the wound there, and sucked in a mouthful of air.

Whatever had been used to slice him on his stomach had left a gash wide enough to pull out his entrails.

How could he have received such a wound and lived, he wondered. Stranger still, how had he gotten from Castle Black to Winterfell? He did not remember embarking on the journey, and it seemed impossible that he should have gotten to this location unmolested by any Bolton or even Karstark men. Or mayhaps he _had_ been captured, but was being kept alive for a different purpose altogether.

The thought made Jon freeze, muscles quivering, as he listened for sounds of other people. When he heard none, his eyes darted around, searching for a sword or anything that could be used as a weapon.

He got to his feet soundlessly and slowly shuffled towards a large wooden chest. Draped over the chest was a well-constructed black cloak bearing the crest of a single pale dragon, fire licking out of its mouth and tail wrapped around the length of a milky white sword. Jon would have picked up the rich looking cloth to inspect it, but was distracted when the glint of a finely crafted dagger caught his eye. He looked around, quickly scanning his surroundings before picking it up.

The dagger was nearly weightless in his hand, yet the blade looked cruelly sharp. Jon carefully placed the knife across his palm and ran a finger over its smooth surface. Valyrian steel, he thought, flipping it over. It had to be. He angled the hilt closer to his face, wanting to inspect the dagger further, but a sudden spasm of pain caused him to fumble the blade, almost losing his grip entirely.

Looking up, he caught his reflection in a long, ornate mirror - one that he was almost certain had not been standing there just moments ago - and gaped as a grey eyed stranger stared back at him. It took him a moment to realize that the stranger was him.

Jon ran a hand over the short fuzz atop his head - a hint of a sulfurous scent escaping at the action. His hair was completely gone and his eyebrows were singed, light wisps of hair the only indication of what had been there before. Any trace of the beard he’d been growing had disappeared as well. How strange it was for his captors to have shorn him, he thought, fingers skimming the smooth surface of his jaw.

Jon felt another twinge of pain slice through him and slowly raised his tunic, staring at the freshly revealed skin for several seconds.

The scars looked exponentially worse from this view. He uncurled his fingers, letting the cloth in his hand fall, and took a step closer to the mirror, extending his right hand to the smooth glass. As soon as his finger came into contact with the cool surface, the entire structure cracked, splintering off into three smaller pieces.

He pulled his hand back quickly and turned his head, checking to see if anyone had heard the sound. After several beats passed with no intrusion, Jon turned back to the mirror, brows furrowed. He felt queer, but inexplicably drawn to the strangeness of the object before him.

None of the broken pieces reflected his image. Instead he was presented with what he realized were the indistinct shapes of three animals. The longer he stared, the more pronounced the shapes became and the easier they were to identify.

The one on the very left looked like a large dog, or … a direwolf. He thought of Ghost then and felt a sudden void, acutely aware now that the presence which had always shadowed his mind like a pleasantly warm and persistent breeze, was gone. Red eyes had stared at him plaintively from between iron wrought bars as he’d locked the direwolf inside one of Castle Black’s unoccupied rooms – lest he maul any of his sworn brothers or the Queen’s men. Even now he could hear the scratching of Ghosts’ paws against the thick wooden doors, at the time unwilling to admit how unnerved the wolf’s strange behavior had left him. Animals know, Varamyr Sixskins had whispered to him before they’d attempted their ascent of the Wall half a lifetime ago.Animals always know.

_Had Ghost known he would end up here_?

Jon turned his head slightly, peering around before focusing on the mirror again, swallowing hard as his stomach dipped in uneasy anticipation.

The shape in the middle now bore the size and look of a bird - a darkly colored bird. _A crow?_

Jon tilted his head to the side staring at the image on his right. It was winged as well, but with its stout middle and long tail, the only resemblance it bore was to a creature that existed solely in stories and legend, and occasionally as intricate embroidery on the backs of cloaks and patches on shields.

He looked behind him, searching for the animals the mirror displayed. Finding nothing, he turned back and saw that their murky reflections were still there, except now they seemed to be moving, and he marveled at the sight. Or perhaps he had taken a harder blow to the head than he thought?

Jon took a step back, but quickly shifted his weight once he heard the sound of metal scraping against wood underneath his heel. On the floor was a smaller but equally as imposing dagger as the one he still held. It was caked in blood, making the color of the metal hard to detect. He knelt and picked it up - a latent sense silently urging him to press the dull side of the blade against his stomach. The width of it measured identically with the size of the wound there, and the last time he had seen a blade similar to it, had been at the Wall -

Jon inhaled sharply, whipping his head up as a barrage of foul memories flashed before him.

The pain had stolen his breath away and confusion clouded his mind when his fingers had come away wet and dark from where he’d run them between the black furs covering his chest. One of the last things he’d tried to do was grab the hilt of his sword with shaking, uncoordinated fingers. 

He’d already been stabbed several times and felt suddenly cold. The last dagger entered his back and the taste of coppery liquid pooled in his mouth as the world tilted and gradually faded from memory.

Jon swallowed now, feeling numb, both daggers slipping from his stiff fingers and landing on the floor with a clang.

He had died, he realized.

He was dead and this strange version of Winterfell was where the gods had seen fit to leave him. It was the only possibility that made sense.

Dazed, he rose on unsteady feet, placing one halting foot in front of the other.

_Was this the next life_ , he wondered, swallowing his panic and peering about him. His desk was still tucked away in the far corner of the room, as were the quill and ink he’d left sitting atop the surface of the wooden table. Jon’s cloak, bearing the white crest of the direwolf, was draped neatly on the back of the seat that stood adjacent to his desk. He frantically turned his head this way and that. It seemed everything was just as Jon had left it before he’d departed Winterfell for the Wall.

Fear unlike anything he’d ever experienced ran through him more sharply than the blades that had been used to end his life. Swallowing down the acrid taste of rising bile, he made his way to the solar door and grasped the knob with a shaking hand. He swung it open and was confronted by the bleak, empty halls of the castle hallway. Resolutely, Jon took quick steps until he found himself running down empty corridors which lead past the mossy, overgrown grounds of the lichyard, and massive stained cuts of glass that stood perched beneath the castles broken Tower.

"Robb!" He yelled as he went. “ _Father_!!”

After a few turns guided by muscle memory, he made his way numbly past the window that overlooked the abandoned court of the Great Keep and rounded towards the doors leading to the training yard grounds.

An inarticulate noise escaped Jon as he pulled at the heavy wooden pillar barring the exit. It was typically a job for two men, but Jon's blood was pumping hotly through his veins, and, baring his teeth to fight against the burning pain in his chest, he picked the log up with a grunt of effort and set it down on the floor. The heavy beam made a loud, echoing thud. He wasn't sure what he would find outside, but he steeled himself for anything and pushed against the doors.

Jon raised a hand over his eyes, squinting as he looked up.

His senses came alive then as he felt the warmth of the sun, the brisk cold of the air, and smelled the familiar scent of burning wood wafting gently on the morning breeze.

It was hard to believe that this place - this shadow of his home - was nothing more than a cruel parody of reality.

Jon spent a few more moments frantically taking his fill of the sky, of the perfect cast of the horizon, then made his way slowly down the steps on trembling legs into the open yard.

"Hello," he said quietly, the word an unsure invitation to the silence that enveloped him. Seconds lapsed, then, in a much louder voice, he yelled, "Hello!"

The sound echoed throughout the empty open space and eventually quieted into nothingness. The stillness in the air cast an unsettling tone on the castle grounds, one which lifted the hairs on Jon’s arms and on the back of his neck.

A loud squawk pulled his attention to the sky once more, and there, a lone raven flapped its wings, once, twice before landing on the wooden rail of the parapet that loomed above his head. At least he wasn't completely alone he thought suddenly, even as his heart hammered heavily in his chest.

The bird was bigger than any raven he’d ever seen before, and though it was a fair distance away, Jon could’ve sworn the animal had something on its forehead that looked oddly like a ... third eye?

A flurry of wings then a shuffle of footsteps sounded behind him. Someone spoke - “Jon,” the voice said.

Jon did not reveal how startled he was at hearing his name, years of training having honed the spring of his reflexes. Instead he turned slowly and planted his feet defensively.

The newcomer was cast in shadow, but Jon could see that the other person was young and long legged, with shoulder length auburn hair.

The boy walked forward and Jon felt the tension in his body simultaneously wane and then spike as the cloud above them broke and the other's features came into view. His face had changed since last they’d seen each other, hardened some by the burgeoning of adolescence, but Jon recognized it all the same.

" _Bran_?" He breathed, dragging the name across his tongue until it sounded like two words instead of one.

The boy inclined his head in slow acknowledgement and Jon swallowed - his throat dry.

"Gods Bran," his voice trailed off as he stared at his brother with wide, confused eyes. He let out a stream of shaky air, a small part of his despair waning as he selfishly took comfort in the other boys’ presence. "You look ..." _Tall_ , he thought, numbly, taking in the simple black pants and hooded cloak lined with fur that his brother wore. _Walking_. _Not crippled._ " _Different_ ," he said finally, his voice soft and stilted with emotion.

His brother looked heavenward, brows furrowed, then slowly his attention shifted and his gaze roamed piercingly over Jon’s body, lingering on the spot where his fatal wound lay concealed underneath his crumpled shirt.

"As do you."

Jon nodded and took a deep breath, trying and failing to hold onto something that might ground him. Hardly anything felt real. Bran himself was tinged with a white halo of haziness that was reminiscent of a dream. Jon wondered if he was dreaming now, if death was just one long endless dream. Nothing of this place held the familiarity of the castle he knew. It had an uncanny resemblance to his home, but the similarities ended there. The place he'd often dreamt of had been warm and bustling with life. This Winterfell was a shell of its former self, empty and cold.

Jon shrugged while tugging at his sleeves, threadbare yet warm against his skin, recalling again the circumstances that had brought him here.

"Yes, well, I imagine death,” he said the word haltingly, testing the anomalous weight of it on his tongue. “Will do that to you." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself, and Jon cringed internally to hear the bitter, self-pitying tone that accompanied them.

Bran walked closer to him, a considering look in his eye.

"Well, take heart brother, for you yet live."

Jon stared at the younger boy for several still seconds, then swallowed a wounded sound, slowly turning away. He walked towards the stall that Mikhen had once occupied and placed his hand on the wooden half door. The feel of it was familiar beneath his fingers and helped steady him.

When he was a boy he had loved sitting here, talking to the old man about different swords and forging techniques while the blacksmith pounded away at various metals, happy to engage the Lord of Winterfell's son. Even as a child and a bastard, Jon knew it pleased the man that such as he would seek him out for company.

"If only that were true," Jon said softly, speaking mostly to himself. He'd still had work to do before being murdered. The Night King was still advancing - still waiting to terrorize the world of men. Jon turned sad grey eyes back on the other boy. "But if this is what death is to be, then I am grateful that we have at least found each other."

"I am grateful as well." Bran walked forward, rounding slowly on the place where Jon had just stood.

His brother’s eyes swept all about them, taking in the almost eighty foot granite wall topped by a fierce litany of gargoyles which stood behind them. Before he fell, Bran had climbed in between those statues, bounding from Keep to Tower with the sure footedness and grace of a cat. Now, the boy’s face glimmered, looking almost as overwhelmed as Jon felt. "I was not entirely convinced that this would work."

"This?" The word hung in the air.

Bran didn't answer. Instead he walked towards Jon, face lined with a sudden focus and silent contemplation as he carefully studied him.

"When last we laid eyes on one another, you were still a wolf." He took a few steps closer until he was within touching distance of the former Lord Commander. "Then next - a crow." Bran’s eyes roamed over his body. It was as if his brother was searching Jon attentively for something only he could see. "And now," the younger boy said catching Jon’s gaze again. "Now you've become something else entirely."

Bran shook his head almost imperceptibly then let out a sudden bark of laughter as he stared heavenward and gave the side of his leg an admonishing slap. The gesture was so achingly familiar from their time back at Winterfell, that the lump of emotion Jon had swallowed before, came rolling up to the surface of his throat again.

"The three eyed Raven...” Bran and Jon heard a bird squawk in the distance behind him and saw when his brother’s eyes locked with the owner of the sound’s shape. “Has had it wrong all along."

An expression that Jon could only describe as wonder had settled onto the other boy’s face.

"Lifetime after lifetime he’s spent searching for three entirely different people," Bran’s piercing gaze settled on Jon once again. "But that wasn't right, was it?"

Besides looking and sounding older, Bran had an other-worldly self-possession that was remarkable for someone his age. It was... unsettling, Jon thought, and that was certainly saying a lot given his current circumstances.

"Bran, what are you _talking_ about?"

"I am talking about you and the role that you must play in the things to come."

Jon shook his head slowly as he stared at the younger boy, confused and heart sick.

"I have no more roles brother.” Jon’s jaw tightened reflexively as he forced the unpalatable words out of his mouth. “My watch has ended."

"It has,” Bran agreed. He took a sure step in Jon’s direction, his eyes brimming with an emotion that Jon could not readily identify. “But your part in the Great War has only just begun."

Jon’s brow furrowed in confusion.

"The war against the Others..." he began haltingly.

"Is the only war that matters." Bran finished.

Jon could only stare at the other boy feeling profoundly disturbed. How was it possible for his brother to know of such things and moreover speak on it with such conviction?

"I...I _knew_ that,” Jon said with a faltering voice - lost to the purpose of the conversation yet wholly intent on engaging nonetheless. “But the rest... They still think it’s just to kill a man simply because he was born on the wrong side of the wall ..."

"Yes," Bran agreed while a resigned expression slowly crept over his face. He stared at Jon for a beat longer and then looked away, sighing. His brother’s eyes became shuttered then and he shivered almost imperceptibly underneath the heavy cloak that he wore.

"They know nothing." The words were spoken softly, dismissively, breath misting in the cold air.

Jon was reminded of another redhead then, and he looked skyward, forcing himself to blink away the sudden tears that sprung unwanted to his eyes.

"Yes," Jon said almost to himself, the burden of those he'd loved and lost weighing heavily on him then. "They know nothing."

He wondered who, if any, would be left to mourn his passing. Grenn? Ed? Satin? His wildling black brothers? He remembered a man that looked like Marsh crying over his body as the taste of blood, and flesh and sinew filled his mouth while he lay dying. Surely Thorne, who had taken to calling him bastard behind his back and Lord Snow mockingly to his face, would rejoice often and loudly at his passing. Something dark and bitter curled in his stomach then, and he forced himself to push the now useless thoughts from his mind.

"Still," Bran turned back to Jon, walking closer to where he stood and laid a warm hand on his shoulder. The brothers were almost of an equal height in death. "They may not know much, but they will know enough to follow you.” Bran squeezed the place where palm met lightly covered skin. “You are different Jon, anyone who meets you can sense it. At Winterfell...You were only my half brother then and I'm almost certain I loved you best." Bran squeezed his arm briefly again before removing it and offering a small smile. "I think father did as well." His words, though meaningful, were light, Jon thought - tempered by an optimism that felt strangely like hope. How his brother clung to such an unlikely thing in this desolate place was a feat of strength Jon could not yet begin to muster.

Lord Stark’s words ran through his mind then. He had been eight and his opponent twice as large, his heart hammering so loudly he’d thought it likely the damn thing would jump out of his chest. His father, perhaps sensing his fear, had leaned over behind him and whispered in his ear: “Remember lad. Scared is only what you're feeling.” Lord Stark had pressed a large palm over Jon’s heart. “Brave is what you're doing.” He then gave Jon an encouraging pat on the back and had said in a louder but still quiet voice. “Don’t ever forget the difference.” And even though it had done what it needed - calmed Jon enough to face his opponent, and even though he’d nodded his head in silent acknowledgement of what he’d heard, he hadn’t truly understood those words until the day the Half Hand had asked Jon to run Longclaw through his body.

"Father?" Jon blurted out then. "Is he... Here?" Wherever here was.

Winterfell's ghost.

_"Here_?" Bran repeated, eyes crinkling. He seemed confused. "Why would father..." He trailed off and then let out a surprised sounding oh, eyes filling with something like understanding. "Oh Jon no, this isn't-"

He cut himself off and sighed then.

"Brother, wherever father and Robb have moved on to, this," he said walking around Jon and raising his arms in a sweeping gesture, "isn't it."

"But I thought-"

"I know what you thought - what you are thinking, but no. If I had all the power in the world, I would make it so that they could be alive and with us today and every other, but I don't."

Jon shook his head, more confused than ever – his patience worn dangerously thin.

Was all of this... his afterlife, meant to be a test?

Bran insisted Robb and father weren't here, but perhaps it fell on him to meet challenge with persistence. To search and eventually find his family over the bleakness of time. Maybe, once reunited, death would allow the proud Lord to finally solve the mystery of his mother's identity. Or mayhaps she was here, in this world, waiting for him.

The thought was oddly comforting.

"Jon." The sound of his name snapped him out of his musings. “You’re –" Bran cut himself off and sighed, seemingly deciding to take a different approach. “ ** _I_** am much different from when last you saw me.”

Jon nodded. "Well,” he said as he gave his brother an exaggerated once over, heart briefly lightening. “You're taller anyway.” His eyes bloomed then with sudden warmth.

Bran stared at him for a beat, momentarily disarmed, then let out a small laugh. The other boy shook his head and looked down, giving his legs a quick once over.

"Aye, I am, but there’s more to it than that," Bran’s smile slowly faded as his face rose to meet Jon’s, gently sobering whatever lightness had fallen over both of their moods. " _I'm_ ... More than that."

Jon silently regarded the other boy. Long dark hair grazed the top of Bran’s shoulders. Freckles were smattered across the bridge of his nose, which had grown to match a pale, matured face; long lashes framed wide blue eyes.

His eyes were perhaps the thing that had changed the most. The color was just as intense and vibrant as he remembered, but the depths of them... They were bottomless and old. As if he had lived a thousand lives before settling into this one. He was suddenly reminded of the place they were standing in now. A convincing replica at first glance, but a poor imitation once the surface layer was stripped away.

A shiver that had nothing to do with the frigid air ran through him at the thought.

"Alright, well... what is this place?" Jon raised a hand feeling suddenly lost again, gesturing at the space all about them. "And who...” Jon stared hard at the other boy, wondering for the first time if the person standing before him was even his brother. Bran had died years ago at Winterfell. Logically, it seemed impossible that he should know anything about the Others or the Great War still to come. “Who are you?”

Parched though he was for want of answers, a part of Jon dreaded the response to that question.

"I am who I’ve always been, brother."

"Brandon Stark?" He clarified quickly. There was just the slightest bit of hesitation before the other boy nodded. Jon noticed, saying nothing, content to let the answering quiet fill the air.

Perhaps sensing his mistrust, Bran followed with an impassioned, "I am, I swear it."

Jon tried to cast his nagging doubt aside, but a few stubborn seeds took root and lingered even as he forged on, his need for an explanation outweighing his suspicion.

"And the first half of that question."

"You want to know where we are."

Jon nodded.

"I...don't know how to rightfully answer that, I'm somewhat – unsure myself.”

Bran stopped speaking and Jon inclined his head, a gesture of silent permission for the younger boy to continue.

"All I know is that enabling certain..." he paused, clearly struggling to find the right words. "Acts of service, sometimes require an even greater act of sacrifice, and," his brother’s face became suddenly grim as he let out a long stream of air. "Well, perhaps we are allowed to communicate by the same force that willed a princess’s death for your life."

Jon wasn't sure _how_ to respond, struggling as he was to understand his brother’s words.

"But I didn't sacrifice myself," he said finally, choosing to address one of the few points that made a passing modicum of sense to him. "I was murdered."

Bran leveled him with a look so far beyond his years that every hair on the back of Jon’s neck stood on end.

"I never said it was _your_ sacrifice."

Mormont had once told him something similar Jon remembered absently. ‘ _Honor made you leave_ ,’ the grizzled bear of a man had said gruffly. ‘ _Honor brought you back_.’

Pushing the memory away, Jon folded his arms over his chest, mindful of the fresh wound that still radiated pulsing pain throughout his body. He leveled a provoked look at Bran having found himself at the very end of his patience.

"What _are_ you saying then? Speak plainly." His tone had turned decidedly sharp - almost brusque - and demanding. A tone he'd used often as the Lord Commander.

"Right now they are making preparations to burn your body at Castle Black, so we are running short on time." Bran bristled slightly. “Is that plain enough for you?”

No, he thought sullenly, but the words certainly derailed whatever anger had begun to bubble up inside of him. Jon swallowed hard then. He wasn't sure that he believed any of what Bran was telling him, but he asked anyway.

"How do you _know_ that?" Jon unfolded his arms - frustrated now beyond telling - and shook his head. “How do you know _anything_?”

"There are crows at the wall," Bran replied simply in a softer tone. "And though my body lies elsewhere... through them, I see as they see."

Jon remained quiet, silently turning over the other boy’s words. There were stories Old Nan had told them as children - of those whose minds could meld with animals. Then there had been his time spent on the other side of the Wall. He’d exchanged words mostly with Ygritte and occasionally with Tormund the Giantsbane, wholly intent on keeping to himself. And while he had largely ignored the weighted stares of the free folk and their intrusive ogling, Jon could not ignore the accusation or fear that brimmed their eyes whenever he and Ghost traveled silently throughout their camp. Skinchanger, their eyes had said.

_Warg_.

Quite early on, even before his arrival at Castle Black, Jon had known there was something... queer about the relationship he and Ghost shared, but it had been easy to put aside such thoughts given the endless stream of activity that had been taking place then and even during his travels thereafter. The truth of what he was, however, had become harder and harder to escape when he realized he was able to recall conversations that had never been spoken to him, or awoke with the taste of blood in his mouth only to find Ghost later in the day with huge dry red flakes spread over his muzzle. Or perhaps most disturbingly of all, was when he'd had his wolf dreams. When he'd roamed the dark woods or winding castle inexplicably wearing the skin of his direwolf.

"Does that mean you’re-?"

"A warg?" Bran hesitated and looked as if he wanted to disagree, but settled with a soft yes anyway, as if that might have been the simplest answer. "And so are you."

The corner of Bran’s mouth sank into a frown and he gave a quick nod, jutting his chin at a point over Jon's shoulder. The former Lord Commander looked behind him to see that a long wooden bench had appeared in the middle of the court where there had been only grass and mud and the mid-morning light of sunshine breaking through the clouds before.

"You should sit," the boy who looked like his brother said, walking past Jon and crossing his legs at the ankles once he’d settled on the pew. Bran stared at Jon expectantly until he reluctantly followed suit.

A pit of dread knotted at the base of Jon’s stomach.

“There’s something - well several somethings - which you should know. But the knowing may only serve to distract from you what it is you need to do.”

Bran eyed him speculatively, as if he did not entirely trust Jon with the information he was about to share. Sighing, he looked quickly down at his folded hands and then up again at Jon, face constricted with sudden emotion.

"Rickon is alive,” he breathed, and Jon felt as if the air had been knocked out of him. Whatever it was he’d been expecting to hear, the fate of Rickon had not been chief on that list.

“And I know that to be true because I can sense both he and Arya through their wolves." Bran continued on blithely, leveling Jon with a look that was equal parts stern and exasperated. The sort their father had given him and his siblings when he'd caught them misbehaving in one way or another. "Once you return you may be able to sense them as well if you’d take but a moment to stop fighting who you are," Bran paused abruptly. “Though maybe it was all for the best given your reaction to Ramsay Bolton’s letter.”

"I.." So many thoughts flashed through Jon's mind then. _Bran could sense the others through their wolves? Did that mean they were all connected somehow? That they had_ always _been connected? Had Arya been able to find some measure of comfort through this link while she remained the Bastard’s captive?_

And then belatedly, _how did Bran know about the letter?_

Jon paused in his musings, suddenly aware of how thoroughly he was entertaining the other boy’s words. While he desperately wanted them to be true, he knew it was unwise to place any trust in what Bran was saying. After all, there was no way to know for sure if this experience (unusual and bittersweet though it remained), was real and not just the result of what his subconscious longed to hear. A soothing balm to bring him some measure of peace in what was shaping up to be a very strange death.

He cursed silently at the rush of uncertainty that coursed through him.

_But, if Rickon_ **was** _alive..._

“And Arya,” Jon heard himself saying. “What of her?”

If there was one person he would have wanted to see before dying, it was Arya. His small, wild, incorrigible sister. Bran cleared his throat and Jon forced himself to focus on his brother while a rush of guilt washed over him. He loved Bran, and had been strangely comforted when he'd first laid eyes on him in this bleak place, but he and Arya had always shared a special bond even as they shared near identical faces. The Stark look had run strongest though them, and he wondered absently what she looked like now. If she was still the precocious girl he’d left five years ago, or a fearful young woman trapped under the thumb of her captor.

"Arya is beyond my reach,” Bran said unhappily.

Jon nodded slowly, unaware then that Bran had meant something entirely different from what he’d been thinking whilst sharing those few words.

"But she _is_ alive. That much I know."

"And Rickon?" he asked, deciding abruptly and perhaps foolishly to give weight to his madness.

"In Skaagos - with a wildling woman.” Bran smiled serenely then. “Her name is Osha."

Jon shook his head feeling a numbness that had nothing to do with the brisk air of their surroundings.

" _How_?" Jon intoned. It was a simple but loaded word. _How was Rickon alive? How did Bran know these things? How was any of this possible?_

"Theon lied about killing us. He found two boys our age and burned them beyond recognition – or so I heard. Mayhaps so his men would not think him weak." Bran still looked at him, but his eyes now held an odd, faraway quality.

Jon swallowed the sudden anger that flared to life inside of him.

_Theon Greyjoy_.

He had never cared for his father’s ward - not even as a child. Perhaps, especially as a child. Yes both he and Robb had received their fair share of beatings and teasing by the older boy, but Jon had always felt an adverse reaction where the other was concerned. He'd disliked how Theon swaggered about the castle wearing that insufferable smirk of his. And then there had been that incident on Jon’s seventh name day. Even now, the memory still haunted him. How his father had raged in that quiet way of his when Jon had run away and subsequently returned to Winterfell with his uncle Benjen in tow.

"There is a man with him... I am not sure of his name. But he leads them from Skaagos to... Well, South I imagine.” Bran paused as if considering. “Shaggydog trusts the smell of him."

Jon chewed on that information for a while before speaking again.

"And Sansa?" Bran hadn't mentioned her before, and he'd heard that Lady had been killed on the Kings Road many years ago, while their father yet lived. Could she have remained connected to them even after experiencing the loss of her wolf? He shuddered then as his mind turned once more to Ghost. Would the direwolf believe he'd abandoned him, or would he know what happened? Would he try to avenge him? He hoped not. Nothing would make Jon feel worse than knowing Ghost died as a result of his stubborn loyalty.

A troubled look settled on Bran's face and Jon braced himself. "Sansa lives using the guise of a bastard girl... hiding in plain sight."

"But - Lady is dead is she not?”

“Yes.”

_Then **how**_ , Jon thought silently. Bran seemed to sense his line of thinking because he nodded his head in acknowledgement of the unspoken question.

"She prays sometimes. To a heart tree." Bran’s eyes glazed over slightly then, once again looking beyond Jon at something only he could see. "And when she speaks to the tree… I listen."

Bran’s mouth remained open, as if he wanted to share more, but then he pressed his lips together and swallowed whatever else was left unsaid between them.

Jon didn't know why this hadn't occurred to him before (maybe because he'd been too busy questioning the boy’s story and authenticity), but suddenly he was reaching forward - hugging his brother, and Bran was hugging him back. Yes, he'd put on a bit of weight and height in their time apart, but his frame was still smaller than Jon's - his smell was still familiar. Not knowing why, he ran his fingers over his brother’s head and squeezed the scrawny nape of the boy’s neck.

As they pulled apart, Jon kept a firm hand on Brans forearm in the way their father had done with him half a lifetime ago.

"Bran... where _are_ you?" If the other boy was to be believed, it meant he was still alive somewhere that was separate and apart from where they sat right now.

His brother stared at him, eyes bright with unshed tears, and then looked away, seeming less like the wizened unfamiliar young man he’d been just moments ago and more like the thirteen year old boy Jon knew him to be.

"I’m beyond the Wall, in a heart tree, with Hodor and Summer, and a boy and girl named Meera and Jojen Reed."

Jon wanted to know more, but Bran shook his head and said, "We're almost out of time."

"Out of time for what?"

"For us to talk. For you to know what you must." Jon felt his anxiety spike and a cloud of desperation settled over him at his brother's words.

"Will I see Robb and father where I'm going?"

Pain became a tangible thing between the siblings at the mention of their fallen kin, but Bran groaned and shook Jon's hand off as he stood up.

"Jon, how many times do I need to tell you this? You are _not_ dead."

Jon stood as well, swollen with sudden emotion, and filled to the brim with a deep knot of anger and regret. "At _least_ a hundred more,” he nearly yelled, immediately reigning his voice back in when he saw how the other boy flinched. “My men,” he began slowly, suddenly recalling how some of those faces contorted when he bit into their bony meat and tracked their movements through intelligent, sharp eyes. “They betrayed me, they... _murdered_ me.” Jon looked down at his hands then, still disbelieving of the deception even as he recollected the unique pain of steel penetrating flesh. “I felt the dagger pierce my heart," he whispered, his words carried off by the frigid autumn wind.

"I know,” Bran agreed, booted feet stepping closer in his direction. “And they will all of them pay for that – believe me they will. But your death… I suspect,” he paused. _Was that uncertainty Jon heard?_ “It _had_ to happen."

Jon looked up at his brother then with slumped shoulders. He was confused and sad, and would have given voice to how he felt at that moment had the world not suddenly rippled around them. Jon shot out both hands and crouched slightly in an attempt to steady himself.

The light of the sun had disappeared and Jon realized they were now somehow inside of a blackened room. He blinked a few times, forcing his eyes to adjust, then straightened when he saw his brother standing next to a statue of his father’s sister.

He'd opened his mouth to ask how they'd gotten here, but the question died in his mouth when he realized where they were.

"Why are we in the crypts?" He asked instead, trying and failing to conceal the bout of fresh anxiety which had suddenly settled over him.

There was a pregnant pause as Bran took a moment to look from Jon to the statue in front of him and then to the wall behind the statue. The other boy set his shoulders back and nodded his head as if answering an unspoken question in his head.

"I asked myself, why had the Gods given me this ability to see - _everything_ \- without the power to help those I loved most from meeting their doom." Bran took a few steps to and fro as he spoke, pacing before Jon in a small semi-circle. “But I think I know why now.”

"All of it: my fall, the three eyed raven, you going to the wall and becoming Lord Commander." Bran stopped short and looked at Jon. "Aunt Lyana's death.”

Even in this dim light Jon could see his brothers’ eyes growing large, filling with wonder. “Every bit of it was for you... for this moment."

"Bran," Jon said softly, quiet warning in his tone. A strange feeling had begun to swim inside of him - one that had started since he'd laid eyes on the stone face of his father’s long dead sister - and he wanted nothing so much as to leave this place. Not just the crypts, but this strange, bastardized version of Winterfell as well.

"All men must die," his brother continued.

Jon remembered one of his old dreams then. The one where he had been searching endlessly in the cold darkness of this place for someone or something as fear and dread slithered like poison inside of his belly. He remembered how he'd even once dreamt of the stone statues coming alive, reminding him of who he was, and telling him that there was no place for him here among the Kings of Winter.

"Bran," he said his brother’s name again, this time much louder - the word sounding like a plea.

The other boy stared at him, while continuing his diatribe relentlessly, not missing a beat. “And only death can pay for li–“ 

" **Bran**!" The name echoed down the hall of the tomb and beyond, to the cavernous depths that lay beneath, finally stopping the boy’s speech. Jon didn't possess near the same abilities his brother seemed to have, but he was almost certain that whatever he'd been about to hear would have somehow changed things for him. Perhaps changed everything.

The intense feeling of disquiet flared even sharper now in the silence of this dank, dark place and Jon swallowed hard.

The air became charged as the two young men stared at each other silently.

_When we see each other again, I'll tell you about your mother._

Jon didn't know why those words ran through his mind just then, but he was startled at how sure he felt that somehow it was connected to this moment.

"Jon, listen to me," his brother said, walking around him to reach behind the statue of their aunt. His fingers swept along the smooth surface of the wall searchingly. “The three-eyed raven said something to me in passing once, and now that I’m here with you,” he paused, hand hovering over an uneven patch of stone, perhaps having found whatever it was he was looking for. “Now I know it to be true.”

"Some men," he began, "are born into greatness." Bran punctuated his sentence by forcibly tugging at the dislodged chunk of stone, rocking the small slab from side to side, until the brick eventually slid free. He repeated this action with each word he spoke, placing the uprooted items by his feet. "Some men will become great through the course of their life." Bran’s words made him think of Robb then. The Young Wolf some had called him, though to Jon and his other siblings, he had only ever been their brother. But whether wolf or brother, there was no denying that his rebellion had won him a place in history. Traitor. Liberator. Only the victor of the Iron Throne would decide. If it were up to Jon, his brother would forever be styled as Robb the Unbowed. The king who took back the North’s freedom and a man who would not kneel to murderers and oathbreakers.

"And some men," Bran continued breaking Jon’s reverie. The boy reached into the newly formed hole in the broken wall and slowly pulled out a very unusual and very dangerous looking sword. "Some men will have greatness thrust upon them."

Bran held out the greatsword, hilt first in Jon’s direction. He seemed... expectant, as if he wanted Jon to take it.

"Go ahead," he said moving the object closer to Jon. “It’s yours.”

"Mine," Jon repeated questioningly, brows furrowed, even as he reached to relieve Bran of the wickedly sharp steel.

He had never seen a sword with this coloring before. Most had been either a rusted brown from wear and tear, or some variation of silver. Maybe the odd black, he thought, recalling the unusual bit of metal Rattleshirt, the wildling who styled himself the Lord of Bones, had used. All had been dark in appearance though, and yet - somehow - this one was milky white. Stranger still was how the thing glowed in the murky air of the tomb... as if the core of its metal was filled with light.

There weren't many Valyrian swords left in Westeros, and none at all that he could recall looking like this. A handful of the more famous ones had been lost to either tragedy or the ages, but still, there shouldn't have been any at Winterfell, and least of all behind the mortar of their ancestor’s tombs.

"How," Jon asked as he slashed through the air, testing the feel of the object. He had meant to ask _how_ the sword had made its way into the crypts of Winterfell or _how_ Bran had even known it was hidden on the other side of those bricks; but his thoughts trailed off as he continued parrying, becoming lost in the splendor of the unusual blade.

In those passing seconds, where he tested its weight, he was a boy again, and the sword was everything he'd imagined a sword would be when he'd gone running about the castle grounds holding sticks and play fighting with Robb in his youth. The strangely crafted metal was _so_ well balanced, it felt less like fire forged steel and more like an extension of his arm. It felt as if he clasped nothing - as if the sword had been uniquely made to be held by him.

"Does it have a name?" Jon asked, marveling at the familiarity of the weapon. It inexplicably felt like he and the sword were old friends.

He heard his brother give a small strange laugh, but he was too engrossed in the sword to try and understand what the sound meant.

"Yes. It's had several in fact. But the one you might be the most familiar with is Dawn."

Jon stopped short at his brother’s words and looked at him, slowly lowering both of his hands in the process. He saw how Bran smiled and how that wondering look had appeared in his eyes yet again.

Jon looked at the blade he held in his hand speculatively. Yes. A part of him _had_ questioned its appearance. Had thought that he'd only ever heard of one sword in all the realm - in all the world for that matter - with this coloring. But the thought had left him just as quickly as it had come, dismissing it for being not only impossible but ridiculous besides.

"This sword is Dawn?" He paused, a wry smile threatening to lift the corner of his lips. "The Dawn that Arthur Dayne wielded?"

"Yes."

"And you think that I,” he began haltingly. “Am somehow meant to wield it as well?" Jon, who almost choked on the last few words, was left feeling suddenly flushed and rather foolish.

"Wield the sword?" Bran’s tone made it sound as if that concept was the most ridiculous thing Jon had ever told him. "No, of course not." The other boy took a step closer, his hand pointing towards him, palm up.

"You _are_ the sword. Swift and terrible." His brother’s eyes brimmed with that strange hope from earlier as he stared at Jon. And if Jon were being entirely honest, that look unnerved him more than the thought of his death did.

"Alright, **enough** ," Jon said with the voice of the Lord Commander, blunt and demanding, leaving little room for anything other than being obeyed. "All of this," he said making a sweeping gesture at their surroundings. "Not another _word_ of it!” Bran opened his mouth to speak, but Jon cut him off yelling, “NO!” 

The brothers stared at each other, Bran looking as startled as Jon felt at having raised his voice so suddenly and so loudly. Where his fury had come from, Jon couldn’t say, but it lingered just beneath the surface of his calm veneer nonetheless. Maybe it was the fact that he was dead, or the unfairness of being murdered for only having done his duty, or that his eternity was filled with japes and riddles spoken to him in the guise of his much beloved brother. “Not another _word_ about this damned sword, or of Rickon and the others.” Jon flung the weapon down at the other boy’s feet, viciously pleased when Bran visibly startled. “It is _nonsense_ and cruel besides.

A long uncomfortable silence followed as Bran slowly retracted his outstretched hand.

" _Cruel_?" His brother said carefully - softly, his face a mask. "You asked for truth and I gave it to you."

"The _truth_?" Jon scoffed, an unseemly swell of anger still coursing through him. "I listened to you and all of your _truth_ and I believed it, even as ridiculous as it sounded at times." Jon's displeasure was directed mostly at himself. _How desperate had he been to have swallowed such ridiculous and impossible lies?_

"But _this_?" He questioned harshly. "This I will _not_ believe. I cannot."

"What is it about all of this that’s so hard to believe?" Bran’s voice was loud, his lips tight around the corners, and Jon realized his brother’s temper had been unleashed as well. Well good. "That any of this is happening or that you’ve been found worthy to be chosen by a sword like Dawn?"

Jon opened his mouth to speak and then closed it not knowing how to respond. _Both,_ he thought silently.

“And make no mistake brother. The sword has made its choice.”

All of it – from his death, to Bran’s appearance, to Dawn being hidden in the crypts of Winterfell – was beyond believing, but admittedly no more crazy than either one of them having this conversation to begin with, so he remained quiet.

"You know,” the other boy began, eyes narrowed. “Most men will go their whole lives without being able to answer one simple question."

After a stretch of silence carried on for several moments, Jon replied tonelessly, "Oh?" He felt exhausted. "And what question is that?"

"Why." Brans voice was softer but no less intense. "Why them. Why now. Why here. Why or _what_ is their purpose." Jon couldn't help but think of the last thought he'd had as he'd laid dying in the snow.

_Why_.

His brother stepped closer to Jon throwing a vexed finger towards the metal object lying inches from their feet.

"There. That's why. _That is_ your purpose. And many, _many_ people have died to ensure that you were given a chance to fulfill it."

He stared at the dimly lit sword, his shoulders sore and weighted by Bran’s convictions and unsure of why they seemed centered around him. Unsure of everything.

"It is as the stories of old have said," the younger boy continued. He laid a hand on Jon’s shoulder as he spoke, his voice as light as the tunnel of air that swept through the crypts. “Be not afraid of greatness.”

Jon chewed on those words for a time - a litany of questions running through his mind at what any of this meant, but stopped when he felt the world shift around him for a second time.

This shift didn't feel like the one that had brought them to the tombs. It simultaneously rocked the world around them and filled him with a strange and unrelenting tugging sensation. Like something was pulling deep from within him. It reminded Jon of the feeling he got while having a particularly sweet dream, wherein the closer he got to finding or getting what he wanted, the further away the thing seemed; and the more he tried to hold onto the dream, the faster the damnable thing collapsed, like sand escaping through the open spaces of a fisted hand. He knew Bran felt it too when his brother looked heavenward, forehead crinkling, and then settled his gaze back on Jon.

Both boys stared at each other apprehensively, anger suddenly gone and talk of the sword just as quickly pushed to the background.

"Where will I go?"

"Back to the Wall."

Jon wanted to believe him, wanted desperately for his siblings to be alive and for his death to have all been a terrible dream.

"Where will _you_ go?"

"Back to the heart tree." Bran fell quiet abruptly, looking as if he was furiously deliberating something. "Jon, when you return... You have to promise you won't come looking for me or the others." His eyes were suddenly imploring and more emotive than anything he'd displayed thus far. "Your destiny isn't with the Watch,” Bran swallowed. "But it's not with any of us either."

_Destiny_ , he thought with distaste. It was a notion he put little and less faith in.

"I've never believed in destiny," Jon said aloud.

Bran nodded his head in agreement. "I never wanted to either, and yet here we stand." He gave Jon a wry smile. "With you, who should be dead, talking to me whilst holding a sword of legend."

Bran paused and looked around, eyes sweeping intently over their surroundings. "If this isn't fate, then I don't know what is."

Jon stared at his brother, too little time and yet still so much left to be said between them.

“The sword...” Bran stared at him, hope shining brightly on his face. “It waits for you at Winterfell.”

Jon looked down at the steel that glittered against the darkness - Dawn - and shook his head again, still not understanding any of it but not wanting the strange blade to take precedence over this moment. He lifted his eyes to meet the other boy, suddenly sure that whatever words he was meant to say or questions he was meant to ask, he hadn’t been asking or saying them.

_You know nothing Jon Snow._

"Will I ever see you again?" Jon blurted out.

A somber look passed over his brother’s face then.

"That path is still... unclear."

Jon didn't want this to go the same way as when he and his father and Robb had parted. There had been so much to say then, but emotion and stubbornness had held his tongue. He thought they'd have more time - time to find resolution in all of the resentment and love and unspoken words between them.

_When I see you again, I'll tell you about your mother._

How wrong Lord Stark had been. How wrong they _all_ had been.

Jon took a few steps forward until he was within touching distance of his brother.

"Then know that I love you, Bran. Know that wherever this path leads us, we will always be brothers and if by some small chance you are right, and I _am_ to venture back to my life," he rested a hand on the other boys shoulder and squeezed, fingers lingering. "Know that I'll find a way to bring our family back together."

He saw Bran swallow hard before nodding.

"I love you too," the other boy said. He had to strain to hear the words, but they were there, and all of the affection he'd ever held for Bran took root inside of him, and bloomed.

They hugged again, longer than before, but this time there was an air of finality to it. As Jon pulled away, he felt the ground lurch. His head bobbed from left to right as he looked feverishly around them, at how the space they occupied seemed to be folding in on itself.

"Jon, find..."

" **What**??" He yelled. His brother was standing right in front of him but it sounded as if his voice was coming from leagues away.

"Find the..."

_Find the what_?

From the way his brother's mouth contorted and the flush on the other boys face, he could tell Bran was speaking as loudly as he could, but it made no difference. It felt as if Jon was underwater, being sucked away, while his brother’s voice barely penetrated the choppy surface.

Bran seemed to be saying the same thing over and over again but there were only two words he could make out for sure as he was pulled further and further down the rabbit hole.

Promise was one.

Dragons was the other.

With that last thought, Jon opened his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Is there more? You guys let me know. I have a lot written already for my personal enjoyment, but I won't continue here if people aren't really interested (which is cool - I get it!). IF enough of you ARE into this, I'll definitely give it a go. 
> 
> Continuing would mean adding more tags, more summary (maybe), and finishing up the loose ends of chapter 2.
> 
> What you can expect:  
> 1) Almost entirely ASOIAF/ASOIAF Theory based...  
> 2) ... though I like to make up my own events and sometimes change them as well (i.e. Ghost being with Jon in the wildling camp)  
> 3) It will be mostly Jon's POV  
> 4) Jon will not be named Aegon  
> 5) OP Jon  
> 6) Eventual ship, but the story is still (mostly) Gen 
> 
> Comments, interest, ideas are all very welcomed, but pls be kind. Thank you for reading!
> 
> "Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them." - William Shakespeare


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